


Sex and Violence

by JerseyGirl324



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Bondage, Chastity Device, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Non Consensual, Oral Sex, Rape, Strangulation, Torture, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deeper look at the "training" Jack had to suffer at the hands of the Master and what kept Jack going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex and Violence

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to [Let's Have a Kiki](http://archiveofourown.org/works/642288). Non-con and death.
> 
> See also the sequel and companion piece, [Year of Living Dangerously](http://archiveofourown.org/works/676779), which is a Doctor/Master parallel to these events.

Jack kneels silently on the polished marble floor of the Valiant’s bedchamber, staring down at the restrictive birdcage of cold steel that the Master has fastened tight around his cock. He has already been killed several times by the inventive Time Lord, who never seems to lose interest in the freak who cannot die. It is never pleasant, feeling your body fail, plunging into the lonely darkness, and finally suffering the agony of being dragged violently back to consciousness once more. But Jack has long since become resigned to the unnatural experience of death and resurrection, and it is only this sense of acceptance that, for months, has kept his soul intact.

He wonders constantly about the Doctor during the tortured stretches of time when the Master leaves him shackled and alone with only his thoughts for company. He hasn’t been able to see his friend since the other Time Lord took control, and has no idea where on the massive ship he is being kept—or in what condition. Would the Master kill the Doctor? It is a haunting but persistent question that Jack finds himself entirely unable to answer.

The Master has not yet violated his captive in a sexual sense, but if the recent addition of a black leather collar and leash are any indication, that might now be about to change. It is this torment that Jack truly dreads; the simplicity of death is easy by comparison. Despite his downward gaze, Jack can sense the Master nearby, eyeing him imperiously from the red silk sheets of a sumptuous bed. The human’s stomach lurches as he struggles to maintain a cool and detached façade. The feeling of that appraising stare on his naked body is sickening, and involuntary shivers tease his exposed flesh, leaving goose pimples in their wake. Has the Doctor been inside this cavernous room? Has he knelt on this cold floor, subjugated by the Master’s critical gaze? For his own sanity, Jack cannot dwell on the intrusive thought.

It seems like an eternity, but the Time Lord finally rises from his ornate bed and strides over to his kneeling victim, authoritatively taking hold of the chain dangling from his neck and wrenching his head sharply upward.

“Look at me, freak,” he breathes softly. It is undeniably an order. And a threat.

Jack refuses to look at his captor. His deliberate obstinance earns him a sharp smack across the face from a leather-clad palm, the unexpected pain forcing tears to spring forth from his defiant eyes. The Master is all business, dressed as usual in his pressed black suit, issuing commands and answering to no one but the drums.

“Look at me.”

Another hard smack causes Jack’s cheek to smart. He flushes from the chastisement, and wonders fleetingly if his face matches the color of the crimson sheets and bedding. Swallowing his growing shame, his eyes finally lock with the Master’s in a silent challenge.

“I’ve been waiting for this, Jack,” the Master murmurs, wiping away the tears that have begun to fall from the human’s eyes and tracing a damp path down the contours of his blushing cheekbones. Jack flinches instinctively at the touch, but cannot pull away.

“I wanted to do it sooner,” the Time Lord continues smoothly, “but I knew it would be better to wear you down a bit first.” Jack shudders at the unwelcome memory, the many deaths. They have exhausted him to be sure, but more in the physical sense than the mental one.

 “Besides--” the Master’s manic grin ignites like the fires that blaze mercilessly across the continents below “--sometimes it’s the anticipation that really heightens the experience.”

“You know,” Jack replies tersely, finding his voice, “you’re the only creature in the universe that I would  _never_  consider shagging.”

“And what makes you think  _you_  have any say in the matter?” the Master hisses, yanking the chain tighter and causing the collar around Jack’s neck to exert blunt pressure on his spinal column. He winces in pronounced discomfort, but keeps his expression neutral.

“You are seriously mistaken if you think I will do anything voluntarily,  _Master_.” Jack spits out the last word with utter contempt, as if it were poison.

“You say that now,” the Master whispers slyly, lips tauntingly close to Jack’s ear, “although I can assure you that a change of heart will be forthcoming. But in the meantime…”

With those menacing words, Jack is hauled unceremoniously across the hard marble, still on his knees. Once they reach the foot of the Master’s bed, the Time Lord unbuckles his belt and removes an already stiff length from the depths of neat black trousers. Jack’s own cock, encased in its prison of steel, throbs in pain rather than arousal. His mind somehow manages to register a moment of gratitude for the plush rug that now cushions his aching knees, but the dominant emotion is fear of the most primal variety. Trembling slightly, he waits.

“Suck,” the Master orders. Direct and to the point.

“No.”

“Playing the hero will do you no good,” the Time Lord informs him harshly. He administers another open-handed slap, stinging leather meeting pale skin. “You need to  _learn_.”

“I said  _no_.”

“Very well,” the Master sighs pointedly. “Have it your way.”

He turns to a nearby guard, a member of the omnipresent battalion who keep watch over every inch of the Valiant, bedroom included. “Go put a bullet in each of the Doctor’s knees.”

“No!” Jack shouts instinctively. His voice echoes throughout the spacious bedchamber, louder and more desperate than he had intended. Even the usually unshakable guard stops dead in his tracks, his hand already grasping the polished brass doorknob.

“No?” the Master sneers. The question drips with feigned sympathy, and the Time Lord looks down upon his captive with a toothy grin that would generally be described as boyish, were it not so irreparably perverted by a pathology impossible to comprehend.

“I’ll do it,” Jack declares quietly. “If you take it back.”

The Master nods to the guard, who promptly resumes his position in a far corner of the room. He stands silent and devoid of expression; they all behave like that. Jack finds this more than a little unsettling, but the Master insists on these displays of power. His resolve begins to falter as he contemplates the repulsive task at hand, the blunt demand. But if his compliance spares the Doctor even an ounce of harm, Jack will endure it with all the grace he can muster.

“Do it,” the Master orders impatiently. “I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”

Jack is no stranger to sucking off humans and aliens alike, and so he draws a steadying breath, closes his eyes, and takes the Master between quivering lips. The flesh is cooler than he expected, a reminder that the outward appearance of Time Lords can be deceptive. He struggles to banish his chaotic thoughts, focusing only on the immediate physical task at hand, forcing his disgusted brain to forget that it is the Master who demands use of his skills. The process is made all the more difficult by the presence of the guard somewhere behind him; his tormenter enjoys administering humiliation under the watchful eyes of a commissioned audience.

He shudders at the realization, and an image of the vigilant, black-clad soldier enters his mind. What must he think of this degradation? Without warning, the Master suddenly bucks upward, hitting the very back of his throat. He holds Jack’s head firmly in place, scraping his soft palate and bruising his lips as the human stoically attempts to catch a much-needed breath of air.

“Good boy,” the Master purrs. “Very nice.”

When Jack’s trapped head is finally released, he goes completely on autopilot, hollowing his cheeks and working up and down, up and down, up and down…over and over again until the Master’s voice callously shatters the distant safe haven where Jack’s mind had taken refuge in a vain but noble attempt to protect his fragile psyche.

“What would the Doctor say? If he saw you like this…”

 _No!_ Jack gags in abrupt horror, nearly heaving up while the Master is still encased in his mouth. He cannot bear the prospect of the Doctor finding out what he has become; his friend would never give in like this, of that Jack is sure. He freezes completely, paralyzed by dread.

“I bet he would admire your technique,” the Master observes smugly. “The Doctor knows rather well what I like in that department.”

Fresh tears spring from Jack’s eyes and he feels his skin burn with an excruciating heat.  _No. Not the Doctor. The Doctor would never…_

“Continue,” the Master smirks. A sharp  _whack_ from his gloved hand and a firm yank on the chain return Jack to his senses. It takes every ounce of his energy to keep going.

“Look at me.”

Jack ignores him, battling the stream of silent tears that now flow uninhibited from overworked ducts. His knees begin to tremble from the exertion, and he can almost feel the impassive eyes of the guard boring into his naked backside as he continues with his shameful duty. The soft rug that supports him might as well be made of broken glass.

“ _Look_ at me, Jack.” Another slap makes contact with the human’s cheek when he once again dares to disobey. Jack stops working and reluctantly raises his eyes, looking just over his tormentor’s shoulder rather than at his gleeful, pitiless expression.

“Did I give you permission to stop?” the Master snarls, grabbing Jack’s hair and roughly pushing him back down into his lap. He mechanically returns to satisfying the Time Lord’s carnal needs, keeping his eyes firmly on the wall just behind the other’s face. There is a picture with strange symbols that he can only assume are Gallifreyan: the language of a lost civilization. Every inch of his body now aches terribly, and he hopes his defiance will go unnoticed.

“You idolize him, don’t you?” the Master taunts. “Sanctimonious though he is.”

Jack gives no indication of having heard him, but the words sting his rapidly-beating heart nonetheless. The Doctor isn’t perfect; he knows that, of course. But the Doctor will find a way to save them all from this nightmare. Jack believes this because he must.

“Oh, but you’re greedy,” the Master continues coolly. “You want more than that.”

 _No. Don’t say it. Not like this._ Jack’s ministrations become erratic; he adds teeth to tongue, scraping up and down the Master’s shaft with less care than he ought to. The Time Lord jerks slightly, surprised and perversely interested in the new method the freak is now applying.

“Feisty!” he exclaims. “Now tell me, do you want to  _fuck_ the Doctor…?”

Jack’s heart skips several beats as he tries valiantly to ignore the lewd inquiry, his rational mind knowing that the Master is just trying to get a rise out of him. His emotions, however, run wild; his teeth scrape just a bit harder, and all he wants to do is scream.

“The Doctor is so  _tight_ ,” his captor muses above him, tone seductive as velvet but provocative as fighting words. “Nothing in the universe compares to being inside a Time Lord. Maybe, when the two of you are better trained, I’ll allow you to find out for yourself…”

The Master’s ruthless litany of taunts is violently interrupted as Jack’s teeth clamp down hard on his cock; the Time Lord curses loudly and viciously hurls the human away from him. Jack lands with a thud, knees once again making contact with the bare floor, and scrambles to retain his balance. The Master is soon on top of him, wrapping a thin belt around his neck.

“I’m going to punish you for that!” he growls, pulling the leather taut around Jack’s windpipe. Without fanfare, the Master forces his arse cheeks apart and enters him roughly, causing a burst of searing, white-hot pain to rip ferociously through Jack’s body. He cries out as the Time Lord pounds into him, until his air is finally cut off by the belt. The Master loves to make Jack scream—but right now, he wants to strangle him more. The human gasps raggedly for breath, feeling the noose tighten around his throat and what can only be blood dripping from his ravished form. _No more. Please no more…_

The Master ensures that Jack remains conscious; he wants to make him pray for death, wants to feel the life slowly drain from his brutalized body. He loosens the belt just enough to allow the human to catch a strained gasp of air before cinching it tight once more, reveling in the unholy sensation of slick blood and pre-come as he tears Jack wide open.

“Struggle for me.”

Every part of Jack’s body, every frayed nerve ending, sings in exquisite pain. He has little air left, but is cruelly aware of the mortifying abuse being visited upon him. His face turns an unnerving blue as his brain is starved of oxygen, making him long for an end to the physical suffering and emotional humiliation. It hurts,  _god it hurts_ , but Jack has enough mental capacity left to understand that the Master is not going to allow him to expire easily. The Time Lord is a sadist; he lives to cause pain, to wreak havoc upon the lives of the innocent.

_Don’t struggle. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Just let go…_

And so Jack stops fighting, stops trying to inhale, and simply holds his breath as the ligature works its heartless tyranny. Sweat pours down his discoloured face as the Master pants and thrusts, ripping him in two. He feels his enemy’s triumphant release flood his bowels; a manic laugh fills his ears and echoes deep inside his very soul as the belt is pulled as tight as his tormentor can manage. The Doctor’s weary face flashes briefly across his mind’s eye and then vanishes into blackness.  _Let go of the pain._ Finally, the welcome arms of death reach out to embrace him, for once a respite rather than an imposition. And as his body shuts down entirely, unable to sustain life any longer, Jack gladly surrenders himself to the waiting darkness…

  



End file.
